The stability we cannot find in the world, we must create within our own persons. Nathaniel Branden

Inspired by “Anastomosis” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

It means “a building for lodging, feeding and training horses.”
It means the “stalls and compartments where domestic animals are sheltered and fed.”
A sanctuary for insecure, awkward, thirteen-year-old me.
The place I learned to ride, found confidence, discovered I didn’t want to be a vet.

It means “firmly fixed, not likely to give way or change.”
It means not readily altered. Built to return to its original condition when disturbed.
The life we led before Jimmy’s diagnosis.
Secure relationships, a fixed family, a steady life.

It means the scan has “no visible changes compared to the last one.”
It means the treatment is working, the brain cancer is being held at bay.
A 90-day reprieve, an invitation to live and stop
worrying for a time about what’s happening in my son’s head.

It means “critical but unlikely to get worse in the near future.”
The end is in sight but the timing is still unknown.
Home and still here, the daily deterioration so slight as to pass unnoticed.
A heightened awareness of time, a strand of days to spend with those your boy loves most.

It means “balanced, calm, durable, lasting, safe.”
The fourth leg of the family stool, solid and strong.
The Type B counterbalance to our Type A personalities.
The opposite of life after loss.

It means “still here, still standing.”
It means finding our balance and a way to go on.
Even without our stabilizing force, our love remains,
firm and enduring, tethered and tied, holding him here.

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